


The Static Line

by UrbanHymnal



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Civilian Life, Depression, Gen, Hopeful Ending, PTSD, coping with loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 19:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1577054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal/pseuds/UrbanHymnal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s just like a jump: in control, but not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Static Line

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [La Ligne Statique](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2050677) by [Interrosand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Interrosand/pseuds/Interrosand), [Quarby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quarby/pseuds/Quarby)



It’s the little things. They didn’t tell him about those little things that could creep up on you, catch you unaware. Oh, sure, they gave him a pamphlet and a smile and talked about what it meant to be a civilian again, but they didn’t tell him about the loneliness. They didn’t tell him about how silence could press on his ears until he couldn’t sleep or about how much he would miss being surrounded by noise. He has to learn all of that on his own.

It’s not just the thump of helicopter blades and the pounding of booted feet and the sharp crack of gunfire. (Though he is working on admitting that he misses those, too.) It’s the almost constant camaraderie that he misses. He was never alone, seemed like half the time his elbows and knees were pressed up against someone (‘Jesus, Fitzpatrick, any chance you could take up a little bit more room? Didn’t your mama ever teach you manners?’). He misses fighting for the salt at the dinner table and the quick organized march of an entire group of people all intent on the same objective. He misses the good natured ribbing and how even when it was quiet on base, he could still hear people in the distance running laps. 

They didn’t tell him about how there would be days when little things consume him. He locks the door on his way out and then doubles back because he has to check one more time and then he does it again. He spends the rest of the morning at work telling himself over and over that he locked the door and there is nothing wrong and c’mon, Wilson, it’s not like you got a lot to steal anyway. But he thinks about it anyway, about what it would be like to have to start from scratch again, about how he was so stupid to retire and how he was so stupid not to retire earlier. He spirals, wings clipped, plummeting. He fights every flinch at every noise. Every corner in every room has to be checked and he tries to laugh off how nervous it makes him to not sit where he can keep an eye on the door. He gives in and runs home to check his front door during lunch. He suffocates under the weight of always being on.

They also didn’t tell him about the days where nothing would wash over him. He forgets to pay the bills, forgets to turn off the lights before going to bed at night, or he forgets to turn them on in the first place when he comes home from work. He forgets to turn the stove off and burns his eggs for the fourth morning in a row because he gets distracted by yet another newscast about another place and another bombing. He forgets that people--normal, honey-could-you-pick-up-Timmy-from-soccer people-- don’t get any of it and in turns are either fascinated or disgusted by his time in the military. He drowns.

They didn’t tell him any of that shit when he left. Just a handshake and a ‘could you sign here and here and just one more paper to sign.’ 

The first time he gets behind the wheel on the way to work, he has to fight with himself all the way down Pennsylvania to keep from driving right down the middle of the street. His palms tingle every time he gets a little too close to the curb. By the time he pulls into his parking space, he is about ready to crawl right out of his skin. The next day is a bit better. The day after that even better. Two weeks of driving and he thinks he is slowly getting the hang of driving in a city again when a plastic bag blows into the middle of the street. He doesn’t see a plastic bag. Later he tries to figure out what exactly he did see, but all he thinks in that moment is ‘incoming, evasive maneuvers’ and he swerves. He clips his side mirror against a parked car and just barely misses a mom and her kid. 

He stops driving after that. He always liked trains anyway. All those people rushing to work, filled with purpose. Makes him feel a part of something.

But that’s not true. He hates trains. They are crowded and packed and make his back tighten until he can’t breathe. All those people rushing, never looking around, filled with their own purpose. Makes him feel alone. 

So he starts walking. 

Then running. 

Running feels good; the wind whistling past his ears reminds him of a controlled fall and he can control this. He just has to learn how to navigate currents again, how to learn to let go. He can’t be in control all the time, and that’s terrifying, realizing that he doesn’t have control out here where so much can go wrong, where there aren’t people watching his back. 

So he runs harder and listens to the wind whistling. He gets up in the morning and sets a timer to go off when he is making breakfast and tries, unsuccessfully, to tamp down the little smile that threatens to take over his entire face when he takes that first bite of eggs and it doesn’t taste like absolute shit. 

He buys a home. It’s small, but it’s his and he fills it with things. Who needs a television that big or more plates and glasses when it’s just him living here? He does, because it’s not about what he needs right now, but about what he might need later. It’s about permanence, about putting down enough roots that he can’t just disappear one day. It’s about making room in his life for other people.

He goes out on dates and agrees to meet up for a game of basketball. He learns that it is okay to have fun again, to sing off-key (how had he forgotten how much he loved music?), to think about the future rather than being constantly stuck in the moment where everything fell apart. 

He builds his own safety net. He finds out where the nearest support group is. He talks. Sometimes he can tell the other soldiers (can’t call them former, ‘cause there is nothing former about any of them) want him to just stop talking for two seconds, but when he talks about the little things he can see them nodding. A couple of them flinch when he tells them about driving. They get it; he’s not alone. So he keeps talking, fills up the silence until someone else shifts in their seat and gets that look on their face like they are ready to take over and talk about how a car backfiring caused them to duck under a table or how fireworks are the worst possible way to celebrate the fourth of July. 

Somewhere along the way he learns to trust himself again with other people’s secrets, with their hurts, with their lives. It’s just like a jump: in control, but not. He repeats that when he gets a call at two in the morning from Emily, then again at five in the evening when it’s Austin, and he repeats it to himself when he stands in yet another hospital corridor and has to explain, again, to a doctor that he is the only family that Fernando has. 

There is no manual for this, but there should be. He writes one in his head: when it’s okay to press, when it’s better to back off. When to lean in for a hug because Eric doesn’t know how to ask for one, but needs to be reminded sometimes that it’s okay to want one. When to pester Samir about physical therapy and when it’s better to just offer a beer and a few minutes of quiet. Sometimes he gets it right; sometimes he doesn’t, but he keeps trying, keeps fighting all those little things that pile up and bury a person.

And when two soldiers knock on his door one morning, looking beaten and cornered, like one more thing would break them down, he doesn’t hesitate. He lets them in, points towards the shower, and sets to making breakfast, because it’s the little things, too, that can keep a person from shattering.


End file.
